


Room for One More Troubled Soul

by Gryffindorable, vindictive-faerie-princess (Gryffindorable)



Series: Alone Together [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: And an OT3, I romise this will end happily, Multi, That turns into an OT4, WITH TIME TRAVEL, Winter Soldier Recovery AU, anyway, because I am polyamory-shipping trash, blame Autumn, it just wont necessarily get to the ending happily
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-04-16 22:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4642248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryffindorable/pseuds/Gryffindorable, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryffindorable/pseuds/vindictive-faerie-princess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You cannot help him.”<br/>Wanda isn’t in the habit of sugarcoating anything.<br/>"But...There is a woman,” Wanda says. “They did not know to remove her, so he used her to protect himself – from himself. She gaurds everything he used to be, so well that even he cannot access it. If he could, they might have also. So he lets her keep watch over it. He knows she would never help them. Only she can help him access it again.”<br/>Natasha gasps – so quietly only Steve’s superior hearing can pick it up – and Steve doesn’t breathe. He can’t breathe.  Wanda can’t mean…<br/>“He calls her Maggie,” she tells them, and Steve’s heart drops. “It is not her true name, but it is the only one they allowed him to keep for her.”<br/>Steve waits until she’s gone to punch the wall.<br/>“So close,” he mourns. “We were so close to helping him, but we can’t. She can’t. If it were anyone else… She’s dead, Nat. She can’t help him.”<br/>Nat is silent for a moment. “Maybe she can.”<br/>____<br/>Or: Time travel AU in which Peggy visits the future to help Buck remember himself.<br/>Horrible summary, (hopefully) better story. Mostly written because I need something to get me through Civil War. That's gonna hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> New to AO3, still trying to move everything over from FF. Same penname, if you're interested.  
> Anyway, the timeline for this basically goes from January, 2015 to July of 2016. I'm going to try and keep the updates even with the actual dates (ie, Christmas chapters in December), which really doesn't mean much now, since I'm so far behind.  
> Also, this will eventually turn into an OT4, but it's later in the story, so I'm not going to tag it until someone guesses what it will be. You probably can now, to be honest.  
> Don't own Marvel. If I did, this would be canon, and all da babies would be happy. Sorry.

“You cannot help him.”  
Wanda isn’t in the habit of sugarcoating anything. That’s more her twin’s domain, and – for once – Steve is grateful for it. At least, watching the Winter Soldier pace back and forth through a not-really-glass two-way mirror, he’s trying to be.  
“What does that mean?” Natasha asks, perched on a desk along the side of the room, when Steve doesn’t respond. She’s good at picking up his slack.  
“They erased him,” Wanda explains. “Cleaned him of all that made him. They did it through you.”  
Steve nearly laughs, but it’s definitely not from happiness. All this way. They’ve come all this way, and it’s hopeless. Bucky came here for some reason, turned himself in. He came and tried to get help, tried to be saved, and Steve can’t do a damn thing for him. A few catastrophically violent interactions have proven that much.  
“But…”  
“What is it, Maximoff?” Nat prods. Steve isn’t looking at her – can’t pull his eyes away from the vestiges of his best guy – but he knows the minute tightness her voice has taken on. She may not have moved, have changed her usual unaffected posture, but she’s… desperate. For his sake, she cares.  
There are things you pick up about one another when you work together like they have for the past year.  
“There is a woman,” Wanda says. “They did not know to remove her, so he used her to protect himself – from himself. She guards everything he used to be, so well that even he cannot access it. If he could, they might have also. So he lets her keep watch over it. He knows she would never help them. Only she can help him access it again.”  
Natasha gasps – so quietly only Steve’s superior hearing can pick it up – and Steve doesn’t breathe. He can’t breathe. Wanda can’t mean…  
“He calls her Maggie,” she tells them, and Steve’s heart drops. “It is not her true name, but it is the only one they allowed him to keep for her.”  
“Thank you, Wanda,” Natasha says, all succinct Black Widow authority. “Go get some rest.”  
It’s not a question, they all know it. It’s a command, and one that Wanda obeys speedily.  
Steve waits until she’s gone to punch the wall.  
“Careful!” Natasha cries, untangling her limbs to stand. In the other room, Bucky looks sharply up at the vibrations the blow has caused the walls. “Adamantine’s enough to bruise even your knuckles.”  
“Sorry,” he says, as much to the panicked man under observation as to her. “Sorry.”  
She doesn’t say anything – she rarely does – but she ghosts over and rests her hand comfortingly on his shoulder. It’s unlike her, tentative and hesitant. If he were a mark, Steve knows, Natasha’s persona wouldn’t have any issue expressing (fake) physical affection.  
But he’s not a mark, and she’s not undercover. Steve knows how hard it is for her to show she cares, and so he accepts her gesture gratefully, his hand raising to cover hers.  
“So close,” he mourns. “We were so close to helping him, but we can’t. She can’t. If it were anyone else…”  
“Steve,” Natasha tries.  
Anyone but Peggy. Anyone. “She’s dead, Nat. She can’t help him.”  
Nat is silent for a moment. “Maybe she can.”  
Steve’s eyes flash to her.  
“Let me make a call.”  
-  
“What?”  
“I may be able to send you back,” Jane repeats, face too large on one of Tony’s oversized monitors. “To the day she – Agent Carter – went MIA.”  
“Someone explain to me what you’re saying,” Steve commands.  
“SSR Agent Margret Carter went missing for just over three weeks in 1947,” Natasha says. “Officially, she got captured in the middle of Northern Canada. Nothing happened – she broke out a day later – but it took three weeks for her to get back home.”  
“But there’s an unofficially?” Steve guesses. Why is the always an unofficially?  
“Something fell into my lap at the Playground a few weeks back,” Nat evades. “A report filed by one of the Howling Commandos. It says she had one hostile left to take out when they left her. Under her orders. They waited an hour before they took off without her.”  
That rings a bell. Or an alarm. “Peg could take down one fella blindfolded and half dead.”  
“Exactly,” Jane agrees. She moves back, and Steve can see Thor lounging in the background. “So how did Agent Carter not manage to make that plane?”  
“Come on, Cap,” Nat says, “you knew her.”  
“You’re talking about time travel,” he states. “You’re talking about Peggy time traveling to the future. To now. That’s impossible.”  
“It’s just an Einstein-Rosen bridge,” Jane contradicts, glancing at the beaming Asgardian behind her. If Jane actually minded, Thor’s habit of staring proudly at her would probably be creepy. “Like Heimdall does. I’ve been studying the technology, and I’ve developed a prototype I think will work.”  
“Think?” Natasha questions.  
“I haven’t had occasion to test it,” Jane defends. “Or a willing subject.”  
“I’m willing,” Steve decides. When was the last time he said no to a science experiment?  
“Are you certain, friend Steven?” Thor asks. “It could prove dangerous.”  
“You’ve seen what I’ve done to save the world,” Steve deadpans. “What do you think I’d do to save the most important person in it?”  
Especially since it’s the only chance he’ll ever have again to speak to the other most important person in the world.  
“Fair enough,” Jane murmurs, “but, Steve, I don’t know that it’ll work, and it definitely won’t take you across space as well as time. If it gets you back to forty-seven, it’ll get you back here – now – but you’re on your own from there. I can’t help with transportation.”  
“I know,” Steve tells her. “And thank you.”  
“Of course,” Jane dismisses. “I’ll send it right over.”  
She shoots a questioning look at her godly companion.  
“We shall arrive within the hour,” Thor promises, and Jane severs the video connection.

As it turns out, Thor truly does mean we. He shows up forty minutes later, toting Mjölnir and a strange square device, but also Jane.  
“If you’re bringing back Agent Carter, I want to meet her,” she says to Steve’s look of askance.  
Despite everything, Steve smiles. “She’d want you to call her Peggy.”  
Wonderful, intelligent Jane, who hasn’t let anyone keep her down in her determination to learn. Peg would like her. She’s like Nat, too – his silent, strong semi-partner. They’re teammates, yes, and they work exceedingly well together – they are good together – but Natasha is Barton’s partner, first and foremost. Nothing comes before Strike Team Delta.  
Doesn’t mean Steve can’t appreciate her.  
“It’s pretty simple,” the brunette astrophysicist explains, offering him the device. “You set the date you want to hit. The only other button is the return switch. Hit that, and it’ll bring you right back to fifteen or so seconds after you left.” She frowns. “In theory, at least.”  
“Thanks, again,” he murmurs, taking the machine and turning to Nat. “You ready?”  
“There’s one more thing,” Jane interrupts. “It can support two people if each of you take a handle and hold each other’s free hand – complete the circuit, so to speak – but it would be too dangerous for a third person, who doesn’t have a handle. If you’re planning on bringing back Agen – Peggy…”  
“Solo mission,” Steve interprets. “I’ll manage.”  
“I’m with you as far as I can go,” the Widow offers. “Quinjet’ll be ready in five. No offence, Cap, but you didn’t do so swell last time you flew a plane.”  
-  
Fifteen minutes later, Natasha lands neatly on a sprawling knoll just east of the rural Stark mansion. She wordlessly hands Steve – dressed completely in stealthy black tactical gear, with the not-so-subtle exceptions of his trademark shield and a satchel full of folders concerning her – her mission, her disappearance, her return.  
He doesn’t mention that he’s already practically memorized them, and she doesn’t wish him luck.  
It would be empty, and they’re never that false with one another.  
Still, Natasha’s lips twitch into her version of a reassuring smile, not a second before Steve takes both handles and uses his thumb to hit the button.  
And then he’s home.  
Well, not home, exactly, because this isn’t wartime Brooklyn. But it’s 40’s New York, and that’s close enough for him.  
It’s close enough to her. For the moment.  
-  
“How may I be of assis – Captain Rogers?” a now-frazzled British man stammers.  
“Mind grabbing Howard for me?” he questions. “I’ve got a date, and I could use a lift.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now we see Peggy. And Peggy sees Steve. It could go better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm amazed by the incredible response I've received! Thank you, my loves. It makes me feel much better about writing this.  
> I'm not horribly in love with this chapter (especially the end), but I really am trying to get caught up before school gets too crazy-insane.  
> I am a bit disappointed, though; no one's guessed the fourth member of my OT4 yet. Seriously, darlings, go back and read the first chapter. Or just read the tags.   
> And if you don't like it, yell at me below.  
> Ooh, and I still don't own Marvel.

It’s a routine mission, and Peggy Carter has it well in hand.

            Until it isn’t, and she doesn’t.

            The men come out of nowhere – eight of them in an ambush from the building’s eaves that, really, she should have seen coming.

            Well, it’s time for her to clean up her own mess, she supposes.

            “Get to the plane,” she orders. Most of the Howlies follow her command, pulling their newfound prisoners, the freed hostages, and a few SSR lackeys with them. Only Peggy, Dum Dum, and two SSR agents remain, locked in combat with foes who would kill them without a second thought. Still, as Peggy made very clear on the plane ride out, all force was to be strictly nonlethal unless absolutely necessary. These men might have information that could prove useful later.

            The agents manage to take out three assailants between them before one of them gets taken down, falling the ground with pained cry.

            “Get them to the plane, Dugan,” she directs again, dispatching her third opponent with his help. It’s his second.

            “There’s one left, Carter,” he objects. “’Sides, what would Cap say?”

            “Listen to Peggy, Dum Dum,” a new voice instructs. Peggy’s ashamed to admit she freezes when she sees a familiar blond-haired, blue-eyed, back-from-the-dead all-American super soldier conk one of their not-quite-unconscious opponents on the head. “We’ll take care of these bozos. Peg, on your –”

            But Peggy’s already taken down the last attacker with a clean roundhouse kick to the chest and is now staring – _glaring_ , really – at Steve. He flushes – SSR Agent Margret Carter refuses to add the observation _prettily_ – and busies himself securing their assailants with a length of rope he produces from the side of his pants.

            Dugan takes one look between them and hauls ass out, pulling the agents along with him.

            Steve’s wearing tactical gear, Peggy notes, but it’s all black as night and inordinately thin, visually at odds with the snow-coated earth outside. Super soldier or not, this uniform is a far cry from the iconically patriotic costume he took with him into the Atlantic.

            Speaking of…

            “Steve Rogers, what the _Hell_!?” she demands. “You’re meant to be dead – or at least freezing your arse into a coma!”

            Howard mentioned it could be a possibility. It’s why he’s still looking. _They’re_ still looking.

            “I _was_ ,” he promises, shrinking under her ire. “Or, I… _am_ … Look, Peg, it’s complicated. Can we talk about this _after_ we get these goons taken care of?”

            She doesn’t say anything, but Peggy quirks an eyebrow at him, dropping down to tie up the baddies nearest her.

            “Great!” Steve tries to enthuse, flashing her a shaky grin. She remembers this – this forced optimism he exudes when he’s uncomfortable or afraid. It’s strange to see it when no one’s in immediate danger. The last time she did… well, London seemed a little warmer that winter, walking home from a lively bar in a crimson dress with two exhausted men and whiskey on their breath. “I’ll get Mr. Jarvis to bring the plane around.”

-

“Talk,” Peggy orders, slipping easily into the seat opposite him on Howard’s private plane. The men – prisoners now, really – are all tied up and freshly unconscious in the rear of the cabin as Mr. Jarvis cruises speedily over the west Canadian tundra. “ _Now_.”

            “I’m still in the ocean,” he blurts out. It’s as good a place to start as any, right? “Technically. Will be for another sixty-five… _ish_ years. Yeah… you guys can stop looking. You won’t find… me…”

            He trails off under the weight of her stare.

            “How are you here? _Why_ are you here?” she questions, and she can’t keep the bitterness from her tone. Not that she’s really trying. “Shouldn’t you be off gallivanting about the future – if _that’s_ what you’re telling me?”

            “Ye-yes,” Steve confirms, “bur – you see, a friend of mine, she came up with a… _thing_ …”

            “Steve,” Peggy interrupts – or tries to.

            “No, you kno – I’m sorry,” he decides. “I shouldn’t’ve come back.”

            “Steve.”

            “I’m so sorry – I’ll just – when we’re back at Howard’s, I just go. I never shoulda –”

            “STEVE.”

            He finally meets her gaze, downtrodden and regretful. “You were _happy_ , Peg,” he tells her quietly. “You had a damn good life.”

            A good life. Happiness.

            Funny how Peggy can’t imagine either without him – without _them_ – and yet here he is, fresh from a future where _time travel_ is an option – a future where, apparently, she has no place. Maybe they could have tried, here and now. Maybe they could have had a shot.

            But James is gone, and so is Steve, she knows now. They’ve both gone where she can’t follow. Not yet, anyway. One day, a long time from now, it seems, she’ll follow James, at least.

            Still, she knows Steve, knows that he would want her to be happy – to move on. He wouldn’t do _this_ – wouldn’t interrupt her grieving and steal her ability to breathe again – unless he had a _damn_ good reason. Not if he thought she would be _happy_ otherwise.

            But Steve’s still rambling.

            “– Nat found this report,” he says, “but that doesn’t have to mean anything. History doesn’t have to stay the same, right? That’s the point of time travel – and Nat could be wrong. It might not happen often, but… We’ll – I’ll find another way.”

            “Steve,” she interrupts again. “What on _Earth_ are you on about?”

            “It’s… it’s Bucky,” he admits.

            Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes. The loyal, steadfast soldier who would follow Steve to the ends of the Earth, regardless of danger or what was done to him. Who loved Steve as much as she did – as she _does_ , even if he weren’t sitting across from her. And perhaps she and James had that same sort of connection – it certainly felt like it – but they never got to find out, really, because he fell off a train – off a _cliff_ – _lost in war_.

            Peggy mourned him, right along Steve. Perhaps she didn’t grieve as _deeply_ , as _openly_ as Steve, but that was never in her nature. Besides, she had to make sure Steve didn’t drown in his sorrow. _That_ was her job – the very same that James had agreed to, if she were to perish.

            But then Steve got on that plane, and he decided there was _no other way_.

            Not a day passes that she doesn’t wish she had climbed onto that plane with him. He went down, and she should’ve been right at his side. Perhaps she would have woken up in the future, too. Or, more likely – bloody _certainly_ , if she’s honest (something she hasn’t been in a long time) – he would have found a way to put it down safely. If she had been there – if _James_ had been there – if James had been _alive_ – if Steve had something to _save_ – to save _himself_ – he would have found a way.

            God, James. Everything went to shit after he died. If Peggy focuses on that, she can almost convince herself that loosing James didn’t break her heart. Then she doesn’t have to admit that she… loved him. _Loves_ him.

            Except Steve is talking about the charmer in the present tense.

            “What _about_ James?” she presses, trying desperately to keep her voice even. She knows she doesn’t quite manage, but Steve’s sweet enough not to mention it, even if his eyes flash worriedly – _lovingly_ – to her.

            “He’s… not swell,” Steve tells her. “Alive, but he’s not Buck anymore. HYDRA… they did some things to him, back before I got to him –”

            Yes, she knows. She knew back when everything happened, and she and James talked about it – extensively – when Steve wasn’t around. James needed help, but Steve couldn’t quite fathom there was anything more to his imprisonment than met the eye. Mostly because James wouldn’t let him, and Peggy respected that as his prerogative. He was lucky Steve never had any interest in reading the reports.

            Such was his faith in James.

            “It made it so he survived the fall, but… they got him again, and he doesn’t know me anymore.”

            It makes sense, she supposes. She’d known that Zola’s experiments had been met with some degree of a success; James needed more food after Azzanno, and his body temperature was a few degrees higher. He slept only a few hours a night, and he could lift a Jeep (as came to light during an unfortunate incident that happened while Steve was on a solo mission. James was enough on-edge before the entire fiasco). He confided in Peggy after more than a few dropped hints that she already knew.

            But she, to the very best of her ability, never once considered that James could have survived. Steve, perhaps – if she was feeling especially awful – but Steve had _Erskine’s_ serum, not Zola’s bastardization. If they both worked – if Zola’s allowed James to survive a cliff dive from a speeding train, well, Peggy couldn’t be happier that the bastard is rotting in an SSR hole.

            Steve seems lost, and Peggy can understand that; James was his world, back before the war – and a large portion of it during the war, as well. The only light in his life for most of it. Even when they lost him, Steve knew it wasn’t James’s _choice_ , as much as he mourned him. That he’d be with them if he could.

            Peggy’s not ready to comfort him, though, not yet. She loves him, yes, but she doesn’t know if she trusts him. She _knows_ she doesn’t trust herself, and she’s not quite ready to forgive him. He left her alone – and now he’s come back, for James’s sake.

            Perhaps she’s being horribly selfish, but she’s tired of pretending she’s unaffected.

            “And what has that to do with _me_?” she questions levelly, arching a manicured brow.

            “Wanda – someone I work with –”

            “Are all your colleagues female?” she asks, pursing her lips.

            “The useful ones are,” he says, flashing her a tentative grin. “And they idolize you. Anyways, Wanda says that… _you_ could help him. That HYDRA didn’t know that they shoulda brainwashed you outta him.”             Steve’s accent is coming through, a habit from a smaller body that Peggy remembers only reappearing when Steve was uncomfortable (again, a London pub comes to mind). Somehow she’s relieved to see that _X_ amount of years in an indeterminate era hasn’t changed that.

            “And future me can’t help because she’s a corpse,” Peggy notes dryly. She came to terms with her own mortality long ago – a veritable requirement in her line of work. If she dies of old age, she’ll be grateful – at least, that’s what she’s trying to believe. “Of course. Whatever James needs.”

            He shifts uncomfortably, and Peggy knows he’s not done. “Peggy… I can take you there, but…”

            “But I’d have to come back,” she observes. She’s already gotten that far, darling. For James, that could never stop her.

            “You had a good life, Peg,” Steve repeats sorrowfully. “You did a lot of good – you _do_ a lot of good. There’s a reason Jane and Nat and everyone look up to you.”

            Peggy takes a deep breath, tilting her head just so as she tells herself she’s making the right decision – that whatever pain she’ll feel will be worth it, for Steve’s sake, as well as James’s.

            “Well, then,” she intones, smiling, “I look forward to meeting them.”

-

“Jarvis, you’re back,” Howard calls from his lab as soon as the front door to his mansion opens. “Could you kindly show Miss Roberts and Miss – I have to _work_ , doll – Miss Jacobs out?”

            “Hide,” Peggy instructs Steve, pushing him towards the parlor. She pauses at a table along the wall and pulls out a small ring that she slips on her finger, shrugging at Steve, who watches, baffled, from behind the parlor door.

            “Edwin’s parking the plane, Howie,” she says in an easy Brooklyn accent, flouncing into the lab. “You knew he was bringin’ me – oh, Howie, how _could_ you!?”

            “Sandy, you’re home early,” Howard says. Peggy watches the now-disgusted girls disentangle themselves from the billionaire, pretending to be affected – _scandalized_ , even – by their lack of clothing.

            “You _promised_ you’d stop!” she cries. “Our anniversary is _tomorrow_ , Howie!”

            “You’re married?” one of the girls asks skeptically.

            “Not for long, he isn’t!” Peggy even wrenches the ring off and throws him at it for good measure.

            “Right… we’ll just leave you to it, then,” she says, slipping from the room with her friend.

            Peggy catches a disheartened _Married?_ before the front door shuts. Steve appears a few seconds later, pink to the tips of his ears.

            “Married?” he questions. She shrugs again. She won’t apologize for it, and he won’t ask it of her.

            “Thanks for that, Carter,” Howards says, having already turned back to the square device on the workbench in front of him. “They were fun, though.”

            “Send them bracelets,” she advises dryly. “Tell them I’ve filed for divorce if you have to.”

            “I can’t figure this thing out,” he announces, prodding a small panel with tweezers. “I don’t know what it is, but Jarvis left it here. Where did he get it?”

            “Uh, that’d be mine,” Steve says bashfully, realizing Stark is still unaware of his presence. The double take Howard does nearly makes Peggy laugh.

            “You – you’re –” he stammers. “Well, this is a development.”

            “Captain Rogers arrived this afternoon,” Mr. Jarvis explains, appearing like a ghost. “He requested transportation. You were a bit, ah, _distracted_ when you granted permission to take the plane.”

            “Oh,” Howard says, still blinking at Steve. He returns his attention to the device, popping the panel’s face.

            “Stop looking for me,” Steve suggests. “And stop doing that. We need that to get home.”

            As if on cue, a small holographic screen pops up, Jane’s face taking center frame. “Stark, stop messing with my tech,” she orders, all tiny irritation. “I have enough issues with your son. _Stop_ _it_.”

            The screen disappears, leaving Howard staring at where it used to be. He’s clearly intrigued – even amazed. “My… _son_? Is that my future daughter-in-law?”

            Steve laughs. “She’s married to a Norse god. You’d have less luck with Pepper.”

            Not that Pepper’s actually married to Tony – but she’s the closest the cocky scientist will ever get.

            “Pepper?”

            “Unimportant,” Peggy announces. They’re wasting time. “Howard, I’m going on a trip.”

            “Do you need to borrow my house in Malibu?” he questions, not tracking her meaning.

            “With Steve,” she qualifies, reaching across him to press the panel back into place. “To the future. No, you can’t come.”

            “ _Carter_ ,” Stark moans.

            “No,” she repeats. “Just… no. I’ll be back in three weeks or so. Do cover up the Howlies’ SSR reports, won’t you?”

            “Alright,” he allows, dejected.

            “You’ve plenty here to amuse yourself with, sir,” Mr. Jarvis soothes. Peggy flashes him a grateful smile.

            “Mr. Jarvis, would you mind terribly informing my landlady that I’ve been called away for work?” she requests.

            “Of course, Agent Carter,” he assents. “Do you and Captain Rogers require anything prior to your departure? Light refreshments, perhaps?”

            “Um… no thank you,” Steve says. “Peggy?”

            “Right,” she decides. Steve’s taken one of the device’s handles and is offering his other to her. She takes it and the other handle. “Gentlemen, I’ll see you soon.”

            “Godspeed, Agent Carter,” Mr. Jarvis says in farewell. It’s so much more eloquent than Howard’s “Don’t die.”

            Peggy smirks at them, and Steve hits the button. They fade from existence, leaving only Howard and Mr. Jarvis in the room.

            “Jarvis, bracelets –”

            “– for Miss Roberts and Miss Jacobs, yes, sir,” Jarvis finishes. “Already done, sir. I met them on the driveway. They did mention, though, a Miss Hastings?”

            “Oh, that’s right,” he remembers, wandering back towards his bedroom. “Oh, _Molly_! Let’s, you and me, have a little quality time, doll.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Someone guessed the OT4, which makes me very happy. Actually, two people did: Enid_Black and aquadrop25. Although, aquadrop25, do you really want Howard in the future? He'd run around and take notes on everything he could make "better". Then he'd go back to the forties and create holographic smartphones, and where would we be then?  
> Anyway, I'm not thoroughly in love with this chapter, but figured you guys deserved an update. I finally got a new computer, so I should be able to sit down and type more regularly. Whether or not I can connect to the internet? That's another question. Thanks, dorm wifi.  
> So this chapter is set this past January. We'll be playing catch up through about chapter fifteen, but up to chapter ten is really about Bucky rediscovering himself, and everyone relearning how to live together.  
> Enjoy!

The only break in the walls is a mirror, a reflective rectangle centered at waist height. The rest of the room is covered in a solid foam – even the place where you know the door is – so thick that you can’t press it all the way down, even though you can feel an unyielding hardness less than an inch below your fingers. There is a bathroom you rarely use, a bed you never sleep in, and a door that fades seamlessly into the rest of the white foam walls as soon as it closes, probably so you can’t go out.

            You can’t escape, but your captors are not your enemies. You think. Maybe. You think you know. They have not given you orders, made you harm anything. Anyone. You came to them, and they have not given you missions, or targets. You think that maybe they don’t have an interest in controlling you.

            _They_ put a capsule in your tooth, you know, the people who controlled you before. If you were ever captured, they programmed you to crush it and release cyanide to destroy the non-metal parts of you, then set off explosives to keep the metal parts out of the enemy’s hands. Out of their control.

            You don’t know who controls you now, but when you rip out your tooth and their capsule so no one can order you to crush it, you think that maybe it might be you.

            The thing is, you don’t know how. Maybe you did. Once. You don’t know when.

            You are alone. This fact does not particularly concern you – nothing does – but it leaves you with only your reflection. You don’t understand why there is a mirror, but it is easily the most vulnerable access point in the room (if you can’t get out through the foam walls, it is unlikely that anyone – anything – else can get in) so you watch it. That means you watch your reflection.

            So long as you are alone, you will not harm anyone. You can’t harm anyone. You don’t have orders to –don’t want to – hurt anyone. Maybe yourself. You know you have before – there’s a scar on your not-metal thigh perfectly aligns with your weapon hand – but you have never been allowed to. Maybe you’re still not.

            It doesn’t matter, ultimately. You could, but no one has told you to, and you don’t think you want to, now that you’re away from them. Now that you’ve found him.

            You do not like your reflection. It’s the closest thing that’s come to unnerving you, because you don’t know it. You know it is yours, but you don’t know it – not in the same way the light-haired man does. Thinks he does. Yet the mirror makes you look at it – at yourself. The contrast between ashen skin and dark hair, glinting under the bright lights. Blank expression that almost – _almost_ – disgusts you enough to grimace Eyes stare back at you, calculative and dull, despite their bright color.

            _Blue_ , a voice in your head tells you. It’s a woman’s voice, you think. You don’t remember ever speaking to a woman, but you know women have spoken to you. Given you orders. The woman in your head never gives you orders, only tells you things in a soft, sad voice, lilted in a smooth accent. You can’t remember ever hearing her before the man who wouldn’t fight back – wouldn’t _defend_ himself, damn punk. You don’t remember much before that, though. Or anything. _They’re blue, my love, like Steve’s._

            Steve. That is the name of the man with the fair hair. You know because you read it at the exhibit. You don’t know why, but you want to change it to _Stevie_ , if only in your own head.

            _So do_ , the woman suggests. Not tells. She never tells you to do anything. You like her.

            _Stevie_ is not his name. He has many names. One of them was your target. You were to kill Captain America, who is Steve Rogers ( _never_ Stevie). You are not anymore, but sometimes you forget and you don’t know how to remember. When he comes to see you, calling you a name that you do not own, he stands in the corner, talking softly with hopeful eyes and a desperate smile. It almost makes you angry, and that makes you forget. That makes you try to _hurt Stevie_.

            You think it’s good he doesn’t come and see you anymore.

            _He understands, darling_ , the voice promises. _He’s trying to_.

            You like the voice. She can tell you who Steve is, what the world is supposed be, outside these foam walls. You wish she would tell you who you are.

            _If I could, dearest…_

            She cannot tell you, and you don’t blame her. She keeps you here, makes you remember that you should be here. She reminds you when to sleep, when to eat the food that is sent through the wall every few hours. You think it’s hours. Sometimes the lights get less bright, and that’s when the woman tells you to close your eyes.

            _They won’t do anything to you, sweetheart_ , she tells you every time _. They haven’t any reason_.

            She is right. They could control you, and you couldn’t stop them, even if your eyes were open. But the not-weapon parts of you need rest, so you have to close your eyes. You nearly know that the man named Steve would not let them. He’s strong. _Good_. No one stands a chance against him.

            When your eyes are closed, the woman gives you pictures – scenes. A smoky bar, warm and filled with laughter and music that makes you want to dance, if only you knew how. She gives you flashes of a man, tall and muscular – or so, _so_ small and lithe you’re terrified one breath could knock him over. It’s Steve, you recognize now, but you don’t know how. He’s big, but he should be little. You think he should be little. Stevie is little.

            Sometimes, the woman shows herself to you – only in glimpses, though. Eyes the color of stained wood, with sharp eyebrows that always covey her seriousness. Lips painted Kilroy crimson that twitch to the side in amusement she doesn’t quite want the world to see. Scarlet nails scratch lightly against your arm, which somehow is never metal when she’s there, and she guides it down her silky slip. When you’re alone in the bar, just you and her, that’s when Stevie comes up, and – and, well, what happens after is nice, but it’s nothing to the sensation that blossoms out from your chest when you stand, bared in ways you don’t comprehend, in front of them, and feel their… _something_. They offer you _something_ , in your mind, but you don’t know how to explain it, even to yourself.

            You can never quite see the woman, not all the way. She gives you little pieces of herself – the most expressive parts, but never enough that you can see her fully. Never enough that you can see _her_ as she really is.

            _I am sorry, my love. They made you forget me_.

            Not well enough, clearly. But maybe they did, because every time your eyes open – even before the lights brighten – she fades, until her crimson kisses are only the ghosts a of a memory, and you can’t quite recall the color of her eyes. You wish you knew her – wish you were _allowed_ to know her. They took _Stevie_ away from you, and now they’ve taken _her_. You may not feel much, but you’re fuckin’ _thrilled_ to have taken out as many of those bastards down as you could. You don’t even know her name.

            _I have quite a few, darling. You called me Maggie, for a while_.

            Maggie. You test it, imagine how it would taste dripping form your tongue. It doesn’t suit her, this dryly affectionate bombshell that tries to make you human again.

            _Not particularly_ , she agrees _. I’m so glad you stopped calling me that, love._

            She doesn’t offer anything about herself, but you don’t expect her to. She knows you. You don’t have to know her, even if you’d like to. You wonder if she’ll ever tell you more about yourself.

            _If you need me to_ , she promises. _Once you know you’re safe, if you still need me, I’ll tell you everything I know._

            You’ll need her, you know you will. You’ll _always_ need her. Hell, you mostly know you’re safe now, and you don’t know what you’d do without her, without not-Maggie. Maybe you control yourself now, but you don’t know enough about yourself. You don’t even know your _name_.

            _James_.

            James. That’s it. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You know it, because you read that at the exhibit, too. You forgot it, probably for the same reasons you forget _her_. She sounds different now, quieter and more relieved. Arrested.

            Finally, you notice the open doorway. A woman stands in it, braced against the man called Stevie. She’s dressed in green, drab and close-fitting, with an oversized coat that doesn’t quite match, but that’s the furthest thing from your attention. Her face is scrubbed, clean of makeup with the exception of her scarlet lips. Her hair is held up and away from her face, nearly as dark as yours. Her eyes, though, they captivate you, with their warmth and their joy and their… _something_.

            “Maggie?” you question, voice rough with disuse and disbelief.

            She smiles, the pearly white of her teeth lighting up her whole face. “Hello, my love. Been a while, hasn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?  
> On the story? On Nat? On my inadequate writing? On life?  
> Seriously, any thoughts? Just leave them below.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy in the future! Kinda...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO sorry I took so long to update! Bad Tessa! Bad!  
> Thank you to aquadrop25 (Howard in the future = not awesome idea, right?) and tvj12 for the lovely reviews. Also, shout out to Mere018, because yasssss, Fall Out Boy.  
> Okay, guys, this is seriously IMPORTANT:  
> This story is going to get heavy. Like, dark. In addition to brainwashed! Bucky, and Nat in the Red Room there will be references to rape/non con and child abuse. There will be a child character introduced (her name is Nadia, and she's my favorite), and she will be very blunt in her explorations of emotions and memories.  
> I don't know all of what this story will entail, so I haven't put warnings in the tags, and I won't put trigger warnings on each individual chapter,simply because it won't occur to me.  
> Here is my whole-story disclaimer:  
> This story may be triggering to you, for which I claim no responsibility. However, I can promise you that this is a safe environment, in which everything will end happily. If you need to work through some stuff, this might not be the worst place to do it.  
> I love you all, my darlings, and I hope you enjoy.

Howard’s laboratory fades in a rush of pressure and light. Before Peggy can even draw a shocked breath, though, her feet hit solid ground once more. She and Steve are once again in Howard’s opulent workroom, but it’s empty, heavy with dust and age. Steve offers her a small smile and leads her outside, locking the door by speaking to a voice from the ceiling.

            A rather advanced plane sits a short distance away, guarded by a gorgeous young woman standing at attention.  Peggy imagines she must stand like that often, given her ease in it. Very few soldiers she’s seen have ever seemed so comfortable in waiting for orders. The last one was Steve, and even he fidgeted.

            “Agent Carter,” the woman greets as Peggy approaches, hands clinching just slightly at her sides, like she’s repressing some sort of instinct. “Nice to see you didn’t kick the good Captain’s fanny.”

            “Nat,” Steve complains, lugging the time travel device towards the open cargo bay like a gentleman. It’s not as though he finds it _heavy_.

            “Unfortunately, no,” Peggy notes dryly. “Nearly shot at him again, mind you, Agent…?”

            “Romanoff, ma’am,” the girl answers, ignoring the wispy red curls that fly around her face in the breeze. Peggy can see the wonder and slight confusion in her eyes. The, _ahem_ , Private Lorraine incident must not have made it into any official report. It’s up in the air whether James or Colonel Phillips was to blame. “Natasha Romanoff, but I’m not an agent anymore.”

            “Nor am I, I assume,” Peggy counters. “Perhaps it’s best we dispense with the formalities all together, yes, Natasha?”

            The name falls easily from her tongue, dripping from her lips like honey. Diminutive of Natalia – a bastardized endearment – but it suits her, Peggy can already tell. It fits her like a glove – like she made it for herself. Perhaps _Natalia_ was a different person. Perhaps someone turned her into Natasha.

            “I take it you’re Steve’s partner for whatever hair-brained, half-formed scheme he’s found?” she continues.

            “Peg,” Steve objects, poking his indignant face back outside. “That’s not fair.”

            “It is kind of your MO,” Natasha supplies, allowing him a triumphant smirk.

            He groans. “Great, now you two are gonna gang up on me. That’s real swell.” Natasha arches a brow in challenge, but Steve cuts her off before she can say anything. “I swear to God, Romanoff, if you dare, I’ll tell Clint about his tracking device.”

               Peggy watches Natasha’s eyes narrow. As she stalks towards pilot seat, she grumbles, “Черт , наоборот, мстительный , благородный мальчик разведчик.”

               “ _Hmm_ , he is, isn’t he?” Peggy agrees, slipping easily into a seat at the rear of the plane. She may not look up from bucking herself in, but she doesn’t miss the way Natasha glances at her in the mirror above the cockpit. She knows her espionage, after all.

               “You read her file,” Steve reminds Nat, dropping artlessly into the seat beside his very best girl.

               “File didn’t say anything about Russian,” Natasha tells him, preparing to take off.

               “What is a woman without her secrets?” Peggy asks. “Especially in our line of work.”

               Natasha is a spy. Peggy can tell that much already – Red Room, too, by the scars on her wrist (the poor girl can’t help it if her sleeve rides up while she’s flying the plane). The question is if Steve knows. His quick, sad smile when she glances inquisitively at him confirms that yes, he does know, and that there’s far more to this story. Maybe it’s Natalia’s. Peggy won’t ask. Not now.

               The plane ride is short, though Peggy knows it would take an hour or more by car to reach Howard’s mansion from the city. Halfway through, Steve places a tentative hand over hers between them. She can feel his smile when she responds by winding her fingers through his larger ones. She’s with him, just like she always has been. She thinks she’s done being angry; she’s in the future, for God’s sake, and they’re going to see _James_.

               James…

               No. She won’t think about that – about _him_ – now. He’s somehow – miraculously – alive. That’s more than enough, for now. After all, one can’t cross a bridge before one arrives at it. Whatever has happened to James, Peggy knows she can’t help yet.

               How, exactly, Natasha knows to land the plane vertically in some sort of an invisible floating hanger is beyond Peggy. When the hanger door closes to revel a perfectly solid, visible space with several variations of the plane she’s just stepped off, Peggy decides she doesn’t care to know.

               Natasha shows her to a lift, tucked away against the far wall. Once Steve arrives, she allows her finger to be pricked and takes them several dozen stories down. Peggy busies herself watching the unobstructed view of the New York City skyline in amazement; it’s certainly different than back home. It’s… taller. Then again, this building seems to be the tallest of them all.

               When the lift eases to a smooth stop and enters towards the building they’ve been traveling down, Peggy realizes they must have descended several hundred feet – and that there are several hundred more before the ground.

               A whole slew of people wait in a large, open room. They all stand when the trio enters, rushing (quite impossibly, in the case of the white-haired boy) to surround the newcomers.

               Everyone introduces themselves, fascinated by Peggy in a way she’s far too tired to comprehend. She can barely track all the names and personalities, let alone match them to their respective faces.

               Natasha slips away to join a sandy-haired man in a purple…sweater, perhaps… nursing a steaming mug of coffee. He makes a few ill-timed jokes that have Peggy rolling her eyes and Natasha coolly reprimanding, “ _Barton_ ….”

               The white-haired boy, not quite a man, whom she noted earlier, zips around, seemingly disappearing as he observes her, asking rapid questions, half in a language she doesn’t know. Sokovian, she thinks – the dialect of a miniscule region caught up in the USSR. He’s stalled by Barton’s comments about his age and too much sugar, and eventually held still by scarlet tendrils of light.

               Those… _things_ …. come from a dark haired girl the same age, who banters easily with _Pietro_ in their native tongue before introducing herself as Wanda. When those same tendrils slip out to catch Barton’s dropped mug (which may or may not have something to do with Natasha’s smug hint of a grin) and hit him while returning it, Peggy decides Wanda could be quite frightening.

               Behind Wanda is a man with ruby skin, floating inches above the ground. The Vision, as Wanda introduces him (Peggy will have to ask about the importance of the article at some point) sounds alarmingly like Mr. Jarvis, in cadence and tone, when he greets her with polite pleasantries and inquiries.

               A man named Sam, with an infectious, inviting smile, claps Steve on the back with a quip about _getting the girl_ that gets a few more chuckles than it merits (though Peggy does appreciate his ability to make Steve flush).

               Another man introduces himself as Jim, but Sam and Pietro interrupt, saying that – really, _everyone_ knows – he’s Rhodey. Peggy files _Jim_ away instead, given that it’s how he referred to himself.

               A monumental man with golden hair is next, arm wrapped firmly around the waist of a positively tiny woman – though, really, she’s not _that_ much smaller than Natasha. The man is Thor (a look to Steve confirms that, yes, he is _that_ Thor. Peggy really must remember to inquire about that later) and the woman, who keeps calling her Agent Carter, even though she requests Peggy, is Jane.

               The pair are the last of the people in the room – Peggy’s anxious to escape and find James – until a different lift than the one in which they arrived opens, revealing a tall, dark-haired woman and a man who looks so much like Howard at a glance that Peggy has to look twice.

               “Hey, Aunt Peg,” he greets, paying her very little attention before engaging Jim in a mile-a-minute conversation she’s not certain anyone can keep up with. Peggy has no idea how he knows her, but he clearly does – until, perhaps twenty seconds later, he stops mid-syllable and turns to face her, dumfounded. “Aunt Peggy, what are you doing here? And why do you…”

               The brunette sighs, long-suffering and just a titch amused. “How much paperwork did you just cause me?”

               Steve looks to the ground. “I _had_ to, Maria…”

               Peggy feels her lips twitch. “Peggy Carter,” she introduces herself.

               “Yes, ma’am, I realize,” she says. “Former Commander Maria Hill. How, exactly did you get her – oh, _for the love of_ – Jane, you weren’t actually supposed to _make_ the machine. If word gets out that Stark Industries has that technology – actually, I don’t even know what would happen then.”

               “It doesn’t!” Jane objects. “The plans haven’t even been seen by a camera, and it’s got a vibranium shell that nothing can scan through. I’m the only one who knows the components, let alone how to build it.”

               “Not even myself, nor the Lady Darcy know,” Thor confirms, beaming proudly.

               “But I have the machining records,” not-Howard gloats. “I can get the components for…. What’s this for?”

               “A time machine, Tony,” Jim supplies.

               “Oh,” he says, tilting his head at Peggy in a way Howard does when he’s thinking hard. “That makes more sense. I want one.”

               “Good luck figuring out which components are real,” Jane challenges with a shrug. “With all the extras I made…”

               “Listen here, Foster, I fund your research, and –”

               “Finish that sentence, and I’ll sic Darcy on you,” the small woman warns. “Or Pepper.”

               Tony pales. Peggy thinks he nearly gulps.

               “The lady Natasha has been instructing Jane on making threats and the art of espionage,” Thor explains.

               “ _Dammit_ , Spid –”

               “ _Hey_!” Commander Hill interrupts loudly enough to draw everyone’s attention. “I miss only babysitting you when you were on my hellicarrier. I swear, you people make me miss training recruits.” Barton grimaces, and Natasha’s lips curl slightly down in disgust, but everyone else just looks a little ashamed – and a lot scared.  “Jane, that thing’s getting dismantled and destroyed, and so are the extra parts.”

               “But Agent Carter needs to go back,” Jane argues.

               “Fine, so it gets dismantled so no one can use it until Agent Carter goes back, _then_ it gets destroyed,” Commander Hill amends. “We can’t risk that tech falling into the wrong hands – or the publicity if anyone knew we were capable of time travel.”

               “Alright,” Jane relents. “Fine.”

               “Stark, I’ll tell Pepper if you try to attain those plans or recreate the machine.”

               “She’s not my keeper,” Toy complains.

               “Yes, she is,” Sam, Jim, Clint, and Pietro contradict in unison. Tony pouts, and once again Peggy is struck by his resemblance to his father.

               “Awesome. If that’s all…”

               Please let it be all. Peggy’s exhausted. She can feel herself fading, shrinking back into silence and the shadows; traveling through time is unexpectedly draining, and she had been preparing for (not to mention _completing_ ) a mission for the past several days. She can almost convince herself that – not the cold – is the reason she’s not slept well recently. A part of her wants to collapse, to curl up against Steve’s warmth and sturdy presence, and sleep – for her own sake – but most of her needs to see James, needs to know that this is real.

               So she nudges Steve, who makes their excuses. Peggy makes a detour by the restroom to reapply her lipstick – a ritual that has always made her feel instantly more awake – and allows Steve to lead her down who knows how many more levels of the tower. She pretends she doesn’t notice Natasha trailing them like a shadow. 

              “It, um, it’s just through here,” Steve says, stopping in front of a metal door, molded into a honeycomb rectangle. “There’s an observation room, but, uh, I’ll just…”

               Just what? Give them privacy? Time alone? Give himself a chance to mope and hide? Peggy doesn’t think so. She catches his wrist easily within her own hand, stopping him before his less-tactical-than-fearful retreat.               “Steve,” she intones. “It’ll be you two, in the end. You can at least observe for now.” 

              As he has been, she supposes, for as long as James has been here. It’s hard for her to imagine the charmer she knew so well allowing himself to be cooped up under observation – but then, Steve painted a grisly picture earlier. Peggy’s terrified of what she’ll find behind these doors.

               Steve nods a moment later, and – for the first time – Peggy notices just how he’s changed. His mouth is set in a line, as though it’s become his default, and the skin around his eyes tightens when his teeth clench behind closed lips, just a second before he tries to smile. It’s a lie, one convincing enough to fool almost anyone but her – and James, she supposes. He’s tired – _exhausted_ – with shoulders slumped, muscle held against muscle, as if the very act of walking upright is draining his life away.

               He’s mourning. For the first time, Peggy realizes that he’s been alone here, like she has back home. She may have lost them, but so did he – in a way that’s infinitely more painful. James died, they thought, and she always knew that if Steve survived – if he survived, he’d _live_.

               But Steve… Steve thought James was dead, and then he thought he’d die, too. He left Peggy to move on, only to wake up nearly a century later and realize that she had. She had, and then she’d died, and he was alone. 

              Until James came back, and Peggy hasn’t been able to force herself to process that information in the four hours or so that she’s known. If she were Steve… she doesn’t know if she’d ever let herself.

               One day, she’ll leave. After James is better, after Steve has recovered, Peggy will have to go away, live nearly the rest of her life with the knowledge that they’ve survived, and she’ll never see them again – not like this. She’s trying to resign herself to that, fighting an uphill battle on a slippery slope she’s not sure she wants to ascend, but as long as Steve is happy, as James is himself, when this is all over, she’ll go.

               She’ll go, and she’ll mourn, and she’ll spill more tears than she’ll ever admit – perhaps even a few with Angie, over pie and bloody _schnapps_ – and she will try to move on. Shell live her life, and she’ll become whoever it is that everyone here seems to already know by reputation. She’ll become _something_ , forcing herself to be content with her life because she knows that one day they’ll be content in theirs.

               For now, though, she’s here, and she’s now, and so are they, and she’s going to make the most of every bloody second of it, if only because she can – because it’s _all_ she can.

               She kisses Steve, and though it’s not sweet (they never really have been) or passionate, it’s reassuring as his last had been – tried to be. This kiss is a promise – a vow Peggy intends to keep in a way Steve never thought he could – that everything will one day be right again – between them, with James, all of it.

               Steve responds slowly, disbelievingly, and a smear of red is left across his lips when she pulls away. He smiles gratefully and tugs her inside the observation room. He speaks again to “FRIDAY”, the voice in the ceiling, a hopeful question smoldering in his eyes.

               Peggy nods – she promised, didn’t she? – and he asks FRIDAY to open the door. 

              And there he is, in all his incorrigible, fallen-angel glory. His hair is longer – much longer – than it was, floating limply around his shoulders. His muscles are better defined than when she last saw him, but he’s somehow inordinately thin, bordering on underweight, and his arm – strangely enough, seems to be made from metal. His eyes, always as temperate as a tempest and just as unpredictable – stare blankly ahead, piercingly dull in their comprehension and disinterest. 

              Oh, _James_.

               Perhaps she spoke aloud, for James turns the full weight of his attention on her, and she has to brace herself against the warm solidity of Steve behind her.

               “Maggie?” he inquires slowly, carefully, as though he doesn’t quite know if what he’s saying makes sense.

               Peggy smiles, even as tears threaten to drip over the rims of her eyes, because of course _that’s_ what he’s held onto. _Maggie_. 

              “Hello, my love.”

               Because he _is_ , because he always _will_ _be_ , even if none of them know quite how this will end. She’s here, though, until it does. She slips into the room, letting Steve close the door behind her.

               “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pro Tip: If you talk to me below, I write faster.  
> (Also, the hesitancy around Clint's "sweater" is because Peggy's never seen a hoodie before.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why not add in (my perception of) Civil War drama?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops? I don't have excuses, but sorry. As an apology, see the end note.

Maggie is here.

            She’s _here_ , and she _can’t_ be. If she’s with you, _they_ might find her.

            “You’re not Maggie.”

            Maybe you’re refusing, maybe you’re pleading. Maybe there’s not a difference.

            “I am, darling,” she promises, all warm, wet brown eyes and red lips and no fear.

            She should be afraid.

            But she’s Maggie. Maggie is never afraid. Maggie is just like Stevie. Maggie –

            Maggie’s real name isn’t Maggie.

            “Who are – what is your name?”

            She sits down with you on what is supposed to be your bed, on the other end.

            “I’m not going to tell you that,” she intones with an approximation of a smile. “You’ll just have to remember on your own, James.”

-

Peggy spends the rest of the day with James, sitting in silence unless James deigns to break it.

            He doesn’t.

            James is so very different now. Peggy can see now why Steve can’t quite reconcile him as the same person, but he is. He’s hurt, and he’s pained – to the point where Peggy doubts he even realizes it anymore – but he’s still _James_ , somewhere beneath everything that’s been done to him.

            He doesn’t speak, but he watches her reflection in the two-way – the only potential point of access. When two plates of food come through a slot in the wall – lasagna, Peggy’s favorite (though it doesn’t hold a candle to James’s) – he regards her plate more warily than he does his own, eating only at her careful insistence. Sometime later – hours, perhaps, a voice comes from the ceiling. James rockets to his feet, ready to defend her from an invisible adversary.

            “Agent Carter, the lights are scheduled to dim in ten minutes so that Sargent Barnes might sleep,” the feminine speaker apprises. “Will you be staying with Sargent Barnes, or would you prefer to leave.”

            “I’ll go, thank you,” Peggy decides, catching James’s flesh hand and rubbing its back soothingly. He doesn't refuse the contact. She lifts it to her lips and kisses his knuckles. It’s all she dares to do. Tonight. “Do try and get some sleep, dear, please.”

            James doesn’t quite release her hand, eyeing her for the first time with some sort of diluted mixture of pleading apprehension and fear, almost.

            “I’ll return in the morning,” she vows with a small smile. It pulls from her the last vestiges of her energy. “Sleep well, dearest.”

            FRIDAY closes the door as soon as Peggy slips through it, but in the mirror, she watches James stare at it. He stays like that until the lights dim, then blinks and sits against the bed.

            “Are you ready to go to sleep?” Steve asks, padding behind her. Peggy turns before he can secure her in his arms, burying her face in his shirt.

            “James,” she breathes. “Fuck, Steve, _James_.”

            “I know, Peg,” he soothes, rubbing up and down the length of her spine. He feels the same way – has felt the same way for months, ever since he found the Winter Soldier. “But he’s getting better, trust me. He’s going to get better.”

            He’s parroting the same words, the same phrases, everyone else uses when they drop in to try and comfort Steve. Everyone except Natasha, and he doesn’t have the words to voice his appreciation for her silence. Somehow, though, with Peggy nodding against his chest, the words don’t sound so empty.

            “You’ve had a long day.”

            “So have you.”

            “So have I,” Steve agrees. “Bed?”

            “Bed.”

            “I can set you up with a shower, if you’d like,” he offers convivially, escorting her to yet another lift. Someone will have to give her a map.

            “I’d like to imagine I’ve retained the intelligence to operate a shower, love,” she notes dryly, leaning further into him to take the edge from her comment.

            Goodness, she’s missed him – particularly the way he smiles, exasperated, despite the pink on his cheeks. “Tony messed with it.”

            Ah, yes, Tony: Howard’s son who, it seems, has his father’s propensity to tinker and, perhaps, more than his father’s intelligence. Aside from Peggy’s inability to picture Howard as a father, it’s no wonder if the shower has been over-improved.

            “It’s just me and Nat on this floor,” Steve explains once the lift draws to a halt. “Clint’s up here, too, technically, but he spends most nights with Pietro.”

            He leads her down a hallway and opens the door to a room – a lovely room – kept neat and sparse with military precision. The only hints of any personal attachments are the small but nearly overflowing bookcase and the easel propped near the probably-not-actually-glass wall of windows, complete with a blank canvas. A small stack of clothing lies folded on the bed.

            “Pepper had some clothes sent up,” Steve explains, running a hand through his blonde locks. “You haven’t met her yet. Everyone kind of assumed you’d stay with me, but if that’s too –”

            Peggy cuts him off with a kiss.

            “Steve, be grateful I’m letting you out of my sight long enough to shower,” she deadpans. A part of her still fears this is all some sort of sick dream. It’s a stupid part, but it’s there. “Which is…?”

            “Just through there,” he directs, indicating an open doorway. “Clean towels are under the sink.”

            “Excellent,” Peggy decides, adopting a predatory, if exhausted smirk. “Now, if you’re not lying on that bed when I’m finished, I’ll be very cross.”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

-

The first time Maggie gave you a name – yours or hers – there was a girl. A small girl, with red braids and green eyes and no expression beyond studious determination.

            You gave yourself a mission, for the first and only time: to make the girl smile.

            “What is your name?” she asked in careful English. She had given herself a mission, too: to ferret out your first language. Maybe it was English, maybe it wasn’t. You didn’t know, so you couldn’t say she was wrong.

(She wasn’t. You are James Buchanan Barnes. You are a weapon, but also not. Stevie speaks English. Maggie speaks English. You spoke English.)

            “It cannot be _Asset_.”

            Couldn’t it? It’s what you were called, but it was not your name. Weapons did not have names. They were not human – you were not human – and yet –

            And yet, something wanted to roll, to leap, to Lindy hop from your tongue, a not-quite name that was once solely yours.

            _Go ahead, James_ , the woman’s voice encouraged. _Tell her_.

            “James,” you parroted, even though it’s not quite right. It tasted wrong: heavy and formal and serious. (This was strange; you were never permitted to be anything but serious.) It was _hers_. Only Maggie ever called you James – Maggie and your ma, probably –

            Did you ever have a ma? You couldn’t have.

            The girl studied you carefully for a moment. It seemed pointless; she already knew you could kill her, and she already suspected you won’t. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have broken into your containment unit.

            Unless she decided the risk was acceptable, or even desirable. The thought made the hollow below your chest drop into a tumult. It wasn’t good, and it wasn’t _right_.

            “Yasha,” she decided, wrinkling her small brow. “I’ll call you Yasha.”

            You could handle that.

-

When Peggy wakes, sunlight is streaming through the windows and Steve is gone.

            She’ll shoot him.

            Not really, of course; she’s reveling too much in the sensation of having him back. If he has his shield, though… well, it worked well enough last time.

            Luckily for him, Peggy’s musings are interrupted by the sight of a note on his empty pillow.

_Peg-_

_Didn’t want to wake you. Tony called a team meeting – common rooms are on floor 116, from the elevator down the hall. I moved the clothes Pepper sent to the closet._

_-See you soon_

            And that’s Steve, just as she remembered him: passionate and unsure and hiding what he means to say behind facts and necessary explanations. Everything for which he could not find words lies passively in a simple sketch of her sleeping form beneath his scrawl.

            Peggy takes her time getting dressed, marveling at the fact that this Pepper, whom she has yet to meet, has provided her with several pairs or denim trousers and only one skirt (much to Peggy’s hearty approval). The smile from Steve’s note never quite leaves her face, even well into the lift ride.

            Steve is here, and _alive_ , and James –

            James will get better. Peggy will see to it, if it is the last thing she does on this Earth.

            She regains her composure, only to quite nearly lose it again when the lift opens.

            “-have a responsibility –”

            “You take responsibility?”

            “Listen here, Grandpa –”

            “My _responsibility_ is to Buck–”

            Oh, dear.

-

The girl had a name – a proper name, which people used. (She was human, even if you knew she sometimes doubted it.) It was pretty and sweet and had a deadly edge, rolling off your tongue like antifreeze.

            Maybe one day it would suit her, this too-placid child with the vibrant eyes, the vibrant hair, who was being trained to do unthinkable deeds – trained by _you_ –

            Maybe one day, it would fit her, but not then. Not when you knew her. Everyone called her by it, though, _everyone_ , and you were not everyone. You could not _be_ everyone. You were the Asset. (You were _Yasha_.)

            So you pieced together a diminutive with emotions you knew objectively (things the technicians said you could not feel) , something sweet and proud and strong, and you called her by it when you were alone – either when you were to train her and only her, or when she snuck to see you because she needed _someone_ , a fri–

            There was a word for it, once. You didn’t know that word.

            Maggie liked her, too, and helped you talk to her. The girl was good and getting better – wanted to be _good_ – hated causing _pain_ –

            Maybe, you hoped – wished – _prayed_ (none of which, the technicians said, you could do; you were a weapon) even as you trained her to kill and maim and inflict pain – to avenge as well as defend – maybe, one day, she would leave Natalia behind.

            Natasha suited her better, soft and protective and good. Maybe, one day, she’d realize that. Maybe, on that day, she would hate you – she could have you; she was human – but maybe she wouldn’t.

-

“What’s going on?”

            Instantly everyone freezes, glancing towards her like petulant children. Perhaps Peggy met them yesterday, but it appears her future – or, rather, past – self holds a fair bit of influence in this tower.

            The room is split into two factions, visibly ready to attack each other in small pockets of three or four, scattered so as to not allow the others to unify. At the center of it all, jaws squared and prepared to annihilate one another, are Steve and Tony.

            Oh, for Hell’s sake.

            “Stark wants to let the government try Bucky _for his crimes_ ,” the blond spews, not moving his glare away from the shorter man.

            Tony, oddly enough, does look away. He meets her gaze with a rather Howard-like determination and a semi-foreign honesty. “He’s wanted for questioning –”

            “Hydra was controlling him!” Wanda cries. “It is not his fault.”

            “Surely the American justice system will exonerate him,” the Vision tries to reason. “After all –”

            “Naïve android,” Pietro mocks. “They nearly did not allow _us_ freedom.”

            “And yet it was so,” Thor counters. “There is wisdom in the contingencies of your republic. The majority will do as is just.”

            “And what about us? Do you know how much of the public would want Barnes put away just to spite _us_?”

            “It’s a risk we’ll have to take,” Hill says. “We’re not the government anymore, Wilson; we don’t get special allowances.”

            “Fuck special allowances,” Barton dismisses. “We protect our own.”

            Natasha stands silently against a wall, shocking red hair against the blue-grey glass, though she clearly agrees with Tony, given the glares she receives from Steve. She is unimpressed, to say the least, but she is also the only person present who has yet to voice an opinion.

            “Natasha, what do you think of all of this?”

            “KGB got special treatment,” she says simply. “So did SHIELD. Maybe Barnes isn’t responsible for what he did –”

            “He wasn’t!”

            “But he still did it. He needs to be officially investigated and cleared, or this won’t ever go away.”

            “I know he sho–”

            “I’ve got some favors I could call in,” Natasha continues. The only sign she acknowledges Steve’s attempt to speak is the glare she returns for the first time. Apparently, Steve has retained just as much tact as he’s ever had. “It’ll be over fast.”

            “Spidey’s right,” Tony observes.

            “He’s not okay, Tony,” Jim objects. “You know what it did to _you_ , and he’s worse.”

            “James Barnes is stronger than I’ll ever be.” Tony dismisses without a second of consideration. “Look, it’s a miracle I’ve managed to keep anyone from finding out about him for this long. Someone will find out about him, and it won’t be after he’s better.”

            “If we release the information, we control the narrative,” Hill advises. “We shape public opinion before anyone else can.”

            “I can get evidence,” Natasha offers, face hard as stone. “Videos. Hydra files. He’s a victim. We can prove it.”

            “Nat –” Steve cuts himself off, chocking on a plea of horror and fury. Peggy knows she’d face the same if she tried to speak.

            “Didn’t need to know, Rogers,” the redhead announces. “Didn’t want to, trust me. He can be remanded into SHIELD’s custody – not even leave the tower.”

            Given the general taboo surrounding SHIELD – whatever that is – Peggy finds the suggestion puzzling. Everyone else must, too, but Clint speaks before they can.

            “Why now?” he demands. “Barnes has been here for weeks. Why are you bringing this up today?”

            “Aunt Peg told me to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phonetically translated, "Bucky" means "sideburns" in Russian. Here's a headcannon: http://vindictive-faerie-princess.tumblr.com/post/143650259866/so-bucky-translates-phonetically-to-%D0%B1%D0%B0%D0%BA%D0%B8-in  
> Come talk to me on tumblr. About anything, really.  
> Anyway, this is about half of what was meant to be a larger chapter. I have an essay to write, but if I get it done, I'll type up the other half tomorrow. (Encouragement is not expected, but would be lovely!)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My way of dealing with what I expected Civil War to be.  
> (It was not what I expected it to be.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A week is a far better interlude than seven months, isn't it?  
> Okay, my lovelies, let's get down to business:  
> I'm officially on summer break(ish)! I've got a few classes, but I should have a lot more time to devote to this story.  
> That being said, I'm trying to finish the second draft of an original novel, so I'll probably follow some sort of reward system; something like "write a chapter for your damn book, and you can write a (slightly more fluffy after this) chapter of RfOMTS". It might work. It also might mean I don't update quite as frequently as I could if I just finished the damn story. (Oh, well. Sorry.)  
> Finally: I went to see Civil War last night for my birthday, but most of this chapter was written before. My opinions didn't really change, and they haven't altered the path for this story.  
> (Don't worry, no spoilers. There is a reference to a throwaway line, though. If you've seen the movie,see if you can spot it.)

“I’m sorry?”

            Now everyone is looking at Peggy, trying – and failing, she suspects – to gauge her reaction. They might have better luck if she understood it, herself.

            “Not _you_ , obviously,” Tony qualifies. “ _My_ aunt Peg, years ago.”

            Years ago. Before she died.

            Peggy very pointedly does not look at Steve. She can feel the accusation in his stare.

            “Explain,” she instructs. “ _Now_ , if you’d please.”

            “After I made JARVIS, Aunt Peg said she had a few messages for the future,” Howard’s son explains, waving a holographic screen into existence. He gains momentum as he speaks, like his father does. Did. “I didn’t understand it at the time, but it must have been for this. She set timers. The first one unlocked last night.”

            A larger projection appears, hovering over their heads. A woman comes into focus, and even through the age, under the grey curls and wrinkles and sagging skin, Peggy recognizes her.

            Oh, good lord.

-

Maggie comes every time the lights are bright, but not always for all of the time. Every time, she sits approximately two inches closer to you, touches your non-weapon hand for .47 seconds longer.

            During the fifth light, she touches your weapon hand. Her heartbeat is as steady as her hand on yours. She is not afraid. Good. You don’t want her to be.

            You can want now, you’ve found. Fuck the technicians, you _want_.

            She eats with you fearlessly and coerces you into eating, as well. At first, your torso is uncomfortable, but after the ninth light, you stop suspecting your sustenance to be poisoned.

            Sometimes she talks to you, silently encouraging you to respond with a pause or a look. You do, when you know how. Sometimes, she doesn’t speak at all, only curls up as close to you as she dares and looks at you with big eyes. Those are the lights when the shadows under her eyes are dwarfed only by those held within them.

            She seems to like it when you run your fingers through her long, loose hair, weapons or not.

            Halfway through the thirtieth light, her eyes grow big and bright, and she leaves.

            You think you miss her when she’s gone. Your chest alights with the same hollow pang as when you wake up from images of Stevie. They’re not dreams, really, but they don’t feel like images. They’re just… pictures. Like a moving picture at the theatre.

            She returns later – hours later – after you’ve dutifully eaten on your own, as you know she would want. You are not poisoned. You do not detect any abnormalities in your behavior or processes. The blond man – _Stevie_ , your heart insists, and there’s a thudding in your abdomen like a time bomb – is with her, carrying a thick pile of fabric and a nervous gaze.

            He smiles at you, careful and tentative. He always smiles, but he’s terrified, _desperate_ when he calls you the name you can’t recall. Maggie never uses it.

            Today, it does not upset your programming. It does not break you, and you do not forget, and you do not try to hurt Stevie.

            This is progress. An upgrade being undergone.

            He doesn’t look away from you, even when Maggie kisses his cheek the same way she’s taken to kissing yours when she leaves.

            “You’re sure about this?” he asks her. Worried. There’s something more, though. A dejected glint in his eyes, in the hang of his shoulders.

            ( _He_ hates _himself_ , some long-dormant part of you whispers. It’s starting to awaken, and claw its terrible way through layers and layers of dried tar and rock and solid stone. The technicians buried it. They did not kill it.)

            (It can’t be _right_ , though. Stevie can’t _hate_ himself. He’s _Stevie_.)

            “We’ll be fine, dear,” Maggie dismisses, shooing the blond-man-who-is-not-Stevie towards the door. “Goodnight, Steve.”

            Except maybe he is. The no-longer-dormant part of you was right – on one count, anyway. It’s waking, and it’s growing, and it’s powerful. Even you don’t know how much.

            But they could not kill it. They could only suppress it. And now it is starting to growl, to howl, and it will consume everything it can to destroy _them_. What they did to you.

            You like that part of you. It’s strong. (Maybe you once were, too.) It’s safe. It’s safety; for if they were at all involved, it would never have been allowed to stir, let alone riot to life. They’re gone, well and truly. Maggie is real, and so is Stevie, and maybe you are, too.

            You like that part of yourself. You trust it. And, for the first time since you became a weapon, you think you are learning to trust yourself.

            “Maggie?” you question. “What–”

            You don’t quite know how you were going to end that. You don’t understand your own thought – but they are _thoughts_. _Fuck the technicians_.

            So you stick to Maggie. Maggie is here. She is solid. She is real.

            She’s not dressed as she usually is, in soft shirts and rough, dark pants. Denim. _Blue jeans, babydoll. Best pants out there for workin’ down a’the docks._ Now, Maggie looks more like she does in your head, dark hair down and loose – but bolder, with a long, silky blue dress.

            “I thought I might stay here tonight, James.”

-

“Tony’s right,” the woman on the screen says. Announces. Decrees. “The public must be allowed to judge James, or he’ll never be allowed an opportunity to improve. He’ll be haunted and hunted, and that is the very last thing he deserves. Let this happen, and everything will happen as it should.”

            “How do we know you didn’t –” Steve begins, but he is interrupted.

            “I’m real, Steve, and I’ve all my faculties,” the woman promises. “And this is right. You can’t fight all the world, no matter how much you desire it.”

            Her eyes shift and land directly on Peggy. She utters one more word – _Ozymandias_ – and disappears.

            Ozymandias is Peggy’s _word_ , her promise that what is happening is _real_ and _true_ and _factual_. She took it from a poem, a throwaway sonnet of Percy Bysshe Shelley. She’s always preferred the gruesome relatability of his wife’s Frankenstein, but the verse spoke of the fleeting, destructive nature of time. It enthralled her, in the weeks following the war. Fallsworth and Dugan, of all people, had taken to reciting it as they happily dismantled Hydra, crushed the red octopus under the failing weight of the Third Reich.

            Everything is temporary, like the king’s great city. If that grandeur, that power could not last, happiness had no chance in a devil’s poker game – not for her and Steve and James – life had no chance – but pain had no chance. By the same coin, pain could not persist.

            In June of 1945, that was exactly what she needed to know.

            (For a while – a long, long while – she tried not to think about what that meant for love. Then she embraced it, and _God_ , had she wished she were right.)

            Exactly three people know Peggy’s word – and, for some inane reason, Howard was the first. Actually, Peggy knows exactly why she told him. She told Howard because Howard trusts her implicitly, and he would move mountains if Peggy deemed it necessary. Telling him was the least she could to, an inadequate payment in kind. It was a rather similar case with each Mr. Jarvis and Dugan.

            One day, Peggy knows she will tell Angie. Perhaps – _perhaps_ – she’ll tell Sousa.

            But, as big of an impact as she appears to have had on Tony, Peggy can’t imagine ever entrusting Howard’s son with a term so dangerous.

            The video is real.

            “Nice to know even the great Peggy Carter wasn’t immune to late-nineties fashion,” Barton says.

            “Tony built JARVIS in 2004,” Jim observes, brows furrowing at contradictory details about which Peggy could not _possibly_ care less. “I just made your point.”

            “Yep.”

            “At least she wasn’t in a circus unitard, sequins and all,” Natasha counters. The room eases under their forceful banter. “Yes, Pietro, I have pictures.”

            That’s wonderful. For everyone else.

            The woman said to throw James to the wolves. To let everyone else in the goddamn country decide his fate.

            “Peg,” Steve begs, so lost and betrayed that he can’t possibly know Peggy is experiencing the same at the future’s hands.

            God, she can’t look at him, can’t let herself drown in that disbelieving bottomless blue. Hell, does she wish she could. “It’s real.”

            “Look, we’ve got a responsibility to the world,” Tony says, collapsing into one of the chairs lining the glass table. “I know you don’t want this, but we aren’t entitled to Barnes’s pardon –”

            “What must we do?” Peggy interrupts. Steve steps closer, takes her hand. An acceptance. In this, they are united. They must be. So she lets herself grip his hand just as hard. For James, they’re all in.

-

Once upon a time, you did not have a weapon arm – or more accurately, the Asset had a partially metal extremity.

            (You did not remember ever not having a weapon arm. You did not remember. You _could_ not, said the technicians, for mission safety.)

            (You thought of a man in a Memphis motel, and you let them believe you could not remember. You avoided the machine.)

            (Something deep within your bones creaked and groaned. You did not know what.)

            The Asset’s metal half-arm was powerful, strong, and deadly.

            It was a liability.

            The plating extended to just above the elbow. It could be neutralized with little resistance at the shoulder.

            Ultimately, the system was inefficient. It required upgrading.

            Anesthetic was scarce and unnecessary. It would have been wasteful. The Asset was not human.

            Still it screamed. There was fire inside it – magma sloshing through its bones – being torn apart with more than adequate force, and it _screamed_.

            (It was human, maybe. You were human.)

            Then the pain stopped, after seconds or years or decades. It wobbled and disappeared, like the last waning note of a piano key, though there was still the dull scrape of metal against bone.

            When you were once again aware, Natasha was at your side, clutching your flesh hand and breathing a lullaby in dulcet Russian.

            “Nata…”

_Nata_ , you’d taken to calling her. _Natalia_ sat inappropriately in your stomach, and _Natasha_ belonged to her and you. No one else could know.

           “Why?”

           “You are human, Yasha,” she whispered, glaring at the technician who had begun attaching a new metal weapon. (A rumble sounded inside you, under everything you didn’t know was there.) You flinched when he attached the nerve points, even though you felt nothing. _It’s the sound, punk – tells ya exactly what’s happening_. It must be a gruesome sight.

           “This is not for you to see,” you protested, lifting your hand to brush away a curl that had fallen loose from her braid. You are weak. You most likely would not have been able to move, had her hand not followed yours in support. “You should go.”

_Should_. A suggestion, not an order. You never exchanged those, not for each other. The woman in your head approved, but you couldn’t remember her name at the moment, or her name for you.

           “Finché io sono qui , sei al sicuro,” Nata said. _So long as I am here, you are safe_.

           Italian. The technician didn’t know Italian. You had never been programed to know Italian, but you did.

           Maybe it was your first language. Italian or English, Natasha had accomplished her mission.

           (The magma creature purred within you.)

           “Non mi piace,” you admitted. _I don’t like it._

           She gripped your hand more tightly.

           When the arm was fully attached, the juncture between it and your flesh meticulously wrapped at Natasha’s terrifying insistence – you had taught her well – _he_ appeared.

           He was a physically unremarkable man, grey hair appearing at the same rate his midsection expanded. He ran the program. He owned the Asset.

           He owned Natalia.

              She dropped your hand so swiftly you would not have registered it. He didn’t have an icicle’s chance in August.

                (You truly did train Natasha well. Didn’t hurt that she was pretty damn remarkable to start.)

               The action was as much for her safety as for yours, and you were… something. You were _something_ that she had the presence of mind to release her hold. You didn’t.

               “Я не слышу его крики,” he noted as he entered. _I do not hear its screams_. Then his eyes landed on Nata’s slight form – little more than a wisp of smoke and likely invisible but for her hair – and switched to English, face growing red with shock and anger. “What is she doing here?”

               His English was thickly accented, marred further by his bellowing spew. English was not his first language.

              “The girl came while it screamed,” the technician explained fearfully. You always recognized fear. “She would not leave until we used chloroform, and still she would not.”

               The technician wrung his wrist. It was undoubtedly sore. Probably, his need to complete the upgrade was the only reason it still remained attached to his arm.

               You taught Nata to hurt. It should not have been unexpected that she would use those skills for your sake.

               Natasha met the man’s hard glare with an inexplicably familiar fierce righteousness. You had seen it before, in the small man with the fair hair who you see when they put you away. You had heard it before, in the woman’s warm voice.

               “It is my favorite instructor,” Nata said, carefully formulated and meticulously unaccented. “Its screams were distracting.”

               The man softened. He always softened when Nata spoke English. You never knew what interest the man had in your Natasha, but she was held above the other girls, even above some of the trainers.

               The man produced a gun.

               “Please,” the technician begged. Perhaps he thought English would save him. He knew the man would not threaten Nata, not with a gun, and you are considered irreplaceable, if not valuable. He was desperate, and he was wrong.

               “You allowed a girl to force your actions.” It did not quite make sense, but the man’s English was not excellent.

               “ _Your_ girl,” the technician objected.

               She _was_ his. You did not know how – were not _programmed_ to know how – but he owned her, in a different way than she was yours or you were hers. You knew it was not good. Sometimes, red and purple spots bloomed on her body, though some of those were the result of training. Some.

               You would have taken her away, if she had asked. She didn’t.

               (You might have taken her anyway, for her safety – missions be damned, programming be damned – but she did not ask, and you would not deny her even that small agency.)

               “A child.”

               Nata did not flinch at the gunshots, even as blood splattered across her face.

               “Come, Natalia,” he instructed leaving the room, expecting her to trail behind.

               She does.

-

Weeks pass, then months. January turns into February, turns into March and the beginnings of New York April.

               Bucky’s birthday was last month. He turned ninety-nine, the old jerk. Peggy’s is in a few weeks. He still doesn’t actually know how old she’ll be.

               Steve wishes he could celebrate. It’s not that Bucky’s not getting better; he is, by leaps and bounds. He’s started remembering things from before the war, things like his sisters and Brooklyn dance halls – things Hydra didn’t know to suppress.

               (Steve’s terrified, because if it’s taken him this much time, this much effort, this much pain to remember Becca’s photography hobby… well, they’ve got ninety-nine miles to go before Steve can sleep.)

               Just yesterday, though, Peggy asked FRIDAY to put on some jazz, as she had sporadically over the past month or so, and Buck had pulled her into his arms, and they danced.

               They were so beautiful – _are_ so beautiful – it’s like something out of his most impossible fantasies. It’s something he dimly remembers dreaming is own personal _Let It Go_ interlude, as Sam has taken to calling his prolonged coma.

               It’s something Steve’s drawn. Hell, he’s drawn that scene, over and over and _over_ again. He still draws it, now that it’s really here in from of him – now that it’s really _real_ – but he’ll never be a good enough artist to capture this magnificence. 

               “There’s a senator here to see you,” Natasha announces from the doorway.

               “Isn’t there always?” Steve responds tiredly. Ever since Maria announced Bucky’s existence to the world, every person in it has appeared with an opinion and a judgement. Congress just seemed more self-righteously vocal about it. “Anyone worth seeing?”

               “Wants you to disavow Barnes,” she dismisses, a sardonic grin curling her lips as she ghosts behind him. “It’s the same one who said you would oppose gay marriage before they found you.”

               Oh, that asshole. He’d kept spewing _Captain America traditionalism_ long after Steve had openly denied those values. Steve would love to see the shade the man’s face would turn if he ever found out his childhood hero had once been in a committed polyamorous relationship which included his (very, very male) best friend and a wickedly brilliant woman who had a thing for women, herself.

               It’s too much to ask, having it again. He’s already been granted this miracle.

               “Will he get better?” he asks Natasha. Natasha, the woman with the shadowed past, who’s been made and destroyed and remade, over and over again, until she was left grasping at clouds to build herself. She’s the only one who might understand.

               “He can.” She doesn’t say he will. She doesn’t make that promise. That’s up to Buck.

               “How can I help?”

               Because if there is one thing Steve has always hated, it’s being so goddamn _helpless_ he can’t breathe. This feeling, this weight, its more oppressive than any Brooklyn bully, or putting himself on ice.

               (He doesn’t like admitting to the bizarre levity that came with that particular action. Peggy would not approve. She’d probably try and shoot him again.)

               “I don’t know if you can,” Natasha answers. She’s honest, if nothing else. She wouldn’t lie to him, not about this. It’s strange that a truth-demanding boy from Brooklyn grew up and grew big and trusts a spy with questionable loyalties before nearly anyone else.

               There’s a pause, a tense, heavy silence. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s there.

               “He’s not _bad_ ,” Natasha says finally. Through the observation window, Bucky seems to be staring directly at her, fiddling with his hair. “He’s not a villain. He’s a victim. He has to remember how to be an agent. He needs… talk to Clint. Clint’s better at this than I am.”

               Natasha, at a loss for words. It’s terrifying. Steve reaches to take her hand. He thinks better of it and retracts his hand.

               He has spoken to Clint. Clint, who faced his own demons as a child and never stopped. He even took on other people’s, Natasha’s being only the most notorious.

               “ _You’re not fucked up enough_ ,” Clint had deadpanned. “ _Damn, Cap, you’ve been through a shit ton, but nothing’s_ happened _to you_.”

               “ _You always fought back – always_ could,” he’d diagnosed.

               “ _Tasha couldn’t_ ,” he’d admitted. “ _Baby-Hawkguy-me couldn’t_.”

               “ _When you can’t fight, once you start, you can’t_ stop,” he’d explained. “ _You just destroy yourself, and then you either build yourself up or stay down and hope it passes. Unless you have someone who can understand what it was like. They can save you, but_ you’re _not fucked up enough_.”

               “ _Carter might be_ ,” he’d said.

               _Might be_.

               He might honestly – besides Natasha – be the least mentally and emotionally stable of anyone in the Tower – but he knows it, so it might make him the most.

               God, what’s really fucked up is that Steve’s been through… everything he has, and he’s still not _fucked up_. Not by Tower standards.

               Just what did they _do_ to Bucky?

               It’s online, Steve knows, released with Hydra’s files, but Steve’s not sure he could stomach what he found.

               “They’re cute together,” Natasha observes. “You miss screwing them?”

               It’s unexpected and wildly inappropriate and so _Natasha_ that Steve doesn’t fight the chuckle that huffs from the back of his throat. “Not nearly as much as I missed them.”

               “You’re sickening.” He can hear a rare smile in her voice.

               “So I’ve been told.” By Howard, and the Howlies, and even Colonel Phillips. Bucky got told the same. No one was ever stupid enough to accuse Peggy, though.

               “They love you,” she tells him. “Wouldn’t be here otherwise. Either of them.”

               He knows they love him, somewhere deep inside of himself. At least he thinks he does. In reality, he’s probably _projecting_ – on of Sam’s fancy therapy words – imagining them as he wants because they’re _here_ and he _missed_ them.

               “They love each other.”

               “Probably what they’d say about you and each other,” Nat counters.

               Maybe Peggy would. Maybe she’d say that Steve and Bucky loved each other more than either loved her. God, how she’d be wrong, but she could say it.

               Bucky couldn’t. He doesn’t even remember Steve.

               “Hey, he started fighting because of you,” Natasha interrupts. How she always seems to read his mind, Steve will never know. He knows that she understands emotions more than she lets on. He know she has more of them than she’ll ever admit. “Don’t dishonor him by forgetting that.”

               “Mag – can –?” Bucky starts though the window. It’s stunted and his face is curled with uneasy discomfort as he struggles to formulate his sentence. “Will you… cut…?”

               He breaks off, tugging at the long, dark strands of his hair. Steve understands, and so does Peggy. She looks knowingly for Steve through the mirror.

               “Looks like you’re up, Prince Charming,” Nat says. She produces a knife from who knows where and offers it to him. It’s probably safer than a pair of scissors if Buck loses control; one blade, not two. Not that it much matters. Besides, it’s not like he hasn’t done exactly this before. “Just be home before midnight, huh?”

-

Stevie – _Steve_ , you correct yourself firmly. Steve Rogers, who is Captain America and not your mission or your target – comes through the not-foam door. You do not rise. He is not a threat to Ma… your name for her feels wrong now.

               He is a potential threat to you. She doesn’t seem to think he will hurt you. You are starting to believe the same.

               Steve offers her the knife, but she refuses.

               “You always did it during the war, dear,” she says. Her voice has been fading inside your head, with everything you think you are starting to remember. She is here, though, so you do not mourn.

               (Mourn. You can mourn. You are starting to mourn yourself, but the magma deep within you rebels against you. It does not mourn. It is not dead. It is not gone. You are not gone.)

               “Unless you object, James?”

               You. She is asking _you_. It is not uncommon for her to ask your opinion, but you don’t have one. Not usually.

               Today you don’t, but it’s not because you can’t. You trust her, even with a sharp blade near the fragile, not-weapon skin of your neck. If she were going to hurt you, she would have already.

               (You would have let her. It’s infinitely better than you hurting her, instead.)

               It is… unexpected that you feel the same about the man named Steve. Surprising. You are surprised.

               But you were asked a question. You are no longer the Asset and you do not have to respond, but she asked. They asked. So you shrug.

               Words are difficult. Sometimes unattainable. Vocalizing is not nearly as satisfying as remembering that you have a little sister named Becca who loved the shitty camera you won in a hand of poker more than anything in the world, or that there is green in the blond man named Steve’s blue eyes. It is not an imperfection.

               Suddenly, there is a large mass crouched behind you, tentative and waiting for your permission. You don’t know how to grant it.

               But she is there, and her eyebrow raises, and your chin mimics the movement

.               His hands are gentle and smooth. He brushes the strands of your hair away from your face, from your neck. It starts falling in strands, then in chunks. You close your eyes, luxuriate – _that’s a big word, punk. Least you’re learnin’ somethin’, cooped up in here_ – in the feeling of his fingers against your scalp. It is known. Familiar. Missed.

               Her hands join his, once the hair has stopped falling. It is complete.

               Bucky Barnes stares at you from the mirror. Not _the Asset_. Not _James Buchanan_. Bucky, all charming and dashing and debonair. He’s ready to go out dancing, to charm pretty girls he doesn’t love and who don’t love him with a cocky smirk, to have Stevie’s back in a dozen back alley fights. He’s smiling, a second away from flirting with the woman because maybe she’s Steve’s gal, but Steve’s as much your guy as he is hers. He’s –

               He’s not you. You are not him. You are not the same – will not be the same – cannot be the same.

               (The magma is Bucky Barnes. You realize that now – but it is not only magma, not now. There are pieces in it – the remnants of the tar and stones and chains they inflicted upon it – and it cannot be clean. It lives, but it is not as it was. It cannot be.)

               You mourn. You mourn the Bucky Barnes that was, who never can be again. You mourn for the woman and the man, because they have lost him.

               You do not mourn for yourself. You are not gone.

               Still, the skin of your face is wet and your heartbeat-generator pumps tight and rapid in your abdomen and maybe you manage to vocalize something, because the woman wraps her arms around your metal arm, and Stevie’s fingers brush your cheeks when he says, “You’re not the same, Buck. It’s okay. It’s _okay_.”

               “No one expects you to be the same, my love,” the woman promises. “No one _expects_ it.”

               You do not want to dismiss the woman, but you do not wish to hurt her, not under any circumstances – and _you_ are upset, so you might forget – so you turn into Stevie. You cannot hurt him. You cannot –

               His muscles do not contract under the pressure of your weapon hand as he guide your face into the juncture of his shoulder and neck. His hands sweep down your spine in strong, quivering motions, joined by the marginally steadier palm of the woman.

               “It’s okay, Buck. _You’re_ okay.”

               There are tears. Yours or his or hers, it doesn’t matter. There are enough to quench a flame.

               But you are not flame. You are magma, melted not burnt, melted not frozen, and you cannot be destroyed by the ice of what they did to you.

               They froze you, or tried. On top of everything they did to you, everything they built on you, they layered ice, reduced your magma to a sluggish crawl when it once roared.

               (It was melted, once upon a time, by Nata who reminded you of the woman, Nata who was stolen away, Nata whom you failed. Nata melted the winter enough to insert herself, to bury herself between layers so they could not make you forget her.)

               (It was refrozen by the time red nearly melted it again in Odessa. The Asset found its target, but the woman who was not Natalia escaped with a bullet to her thigh.)

               Because that’s what you’ve found. The magma was never frozen. It was slowed, and trapped, and it could not roar or surge, but it moved. As slowly as is had to, it moved, shifted and bubbled under everything they did. It warmed from within, kept the Asset from being you.

               You might have been the Asset, but it was never _you_.

               Stevie and the woman have broken the ice, melted it and evaporated it. It is gone now.They would have to build its prison again before the ice would freeze. The magma cannot freeze, and it cannot be suppressed without the weight if everything they did. It would melt the ice, evaporate its blood.

               (The magma grins a wolfish promise.)

               It surges to life once more, gurgles and pulses and roars. It does not destroy its containment, but it absorbs it. It steals everything that was sealed upon it and makes it part of itself.

               (Except Nata. Nata is lost – _dust_ – as the magma howls through the surface. Nata, with the vibrant hair you can no longer recall. Nata you trained – Nata you failed. She is released to the atmosphere. She is not to be consumed, not by you.)

               (For her, you mourn. While you can.)

               The magma surges, settles in your chest – in your head – alights your bones and muscle and every tendon. You let it coat you. It does not consume you. It _is_ you.

               It stays, and it soars, and you are _you_. You are Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier, and they may have built you, but they did not destroy you.

               They could not.

               If only they could see you now.

               _Fuck_ the technicians, you _survived_.

-

               “James?”

               His voice is tired and wet and more than a little abrasive, but he smile when he says, “Hiya, Peggy.”

               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone catch it? Talk to me in the comments!

**Author's Note:**

> So? Whaddaya think?


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